


Fronkriid

by strigital



Series: Feral Hearts [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Beginnings, Bisexual Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Blood and Violence, Deviates From Canon, Dovahzul, Explicit Language, Good Dragons vs Evil Dragons, Original Character(s), Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-11-15 09:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20863661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strigital/pseuds/strigital
Summary: “When some of the Dov rebelled against the tyranny of the Firstborn of Akatosh, they knew full well that his minions would destroy them. They needed a strong ally, one who would have the power to lead them against the Despot himself. And as if by the will of Kyne herself, a mortal being with a soul of the Dov has appeared. He challenged Alduin’s greatest officer to a deadly dispute and won, sparing the Dovah’s life in return for his loyalty. Soon, word spread of a man and a dragon, who brought fire and death upon all who served Alduin. Slaves and rebels both mortal and draconic flocked to his banner and soon there was an army. Not long after the fires of rebellion spread across all of Skyrim, but those who sparked it were gone. Some say they were betrayed by one of their own, while others believe Alduin himself burned them to ashes in their citadel. Whatever the truth may be, these rebels are now long lost and forgotten, same as dragons and Alduin himself. But those few who still remember believe that when the Great Tyrant returns to seek his vengeance against the mankind, another chosen soul shall find an ally in a dragon and bring back the Dragonswatch to fight the World-Eater once more…” - Lost Myths of Skyrim, anonymous





	1. One Last Heist

**Author's Note:**

> friendly reminder that the author's native language is not english and as such please be patient with the mistakes. also, expect this thing to be rewritten and expanded from time to time

The happy chirping of flutes, drums and lutes mixed with the yelling of drunken voices and clanking of tankards: such was a typical Fredas evening here, at the Bloated Float Inn in Imperial City Waterfront. Nim, however, didn’t hear the tavern’s cheerful hum, for her desire to fall asleep right here at the table was hellishly strong. She almost did fall nose first onto the dull wooden surface, but the sudden bang of two heavy pints of ale being put onto her table woke her right up.

“Dark ale, yer favorite!”

In front of Nim stood a petit Breton girl with a thick tail of golden locks, shiny honey-brown eyes and rosy lips curved into the widest smile imaginable.

“Took you a while,” said the Dunmer woman and took a hearty sip of her drink. Nice and cold, just like she liked it.

“Well if ya wasn’t so busy catchin’ a snooze ya would’ve noticed there was a whole ass brawl by the kegs. I’ve had to fight for these mugs!” tried to defend herself the blonde with a note of jolliness in her voice before taking a few big gulps of her own.

“Nothing like a good fistfight to get your blood pumping for the upcoming heist,” nodded Nim. She sat quiet for a moment. “Can’t believe this will be our last job together…”

“Oh shush you! We had a good run together, you and I, didn’t we? Besides, we both knew ‘tis wasn’t gonna last forever.”

“Aye,” Nim agreed with little enthusiasm and downed a few more gulps of this heavenly drink.

Yes, such was the truth, Nim and Alessa always knew their partnership wasn’t meant to last forever, they knew it from the first day they met at that stinking inn in Leyawinn owned by a rude old Argonian lady. Nim couldn’t help but smile to those fond old memories of their first meeting. On that night she was busy sitting quietly in a corner, sniffing out potential robbery victims amongst the local drunkards, when suddenly a light-haired girl caught her eye. She tried to pickpocket some burly Nord who caught her by the hand despite being blind drunk. He was about to teach the urchin about the wrongs of a scoundrel’s life with a good punch to the nose, but Nim interfered. She never truly knew why. She always tried to keep to herself and live by the saying “curiosity killed the cat” – the less she got involved in things the better. But on that unusual evening the Gods themselves must have told her to get off her ass and do something for once. After the Nord was thrown out into the dirt, the two girls sat down for a round of drinks and, from that day on, would often cause trouble at the local inns and taverns, never leaving without a coin purse or two. They made a small fortune as a thieving duo, robbing rich Altmer that arrived at Imperial City from Alinor with all their riches for almost ten years. And speaking of which, they were the exact reason why tonight’s job was the last one. It’s those damn Altmer.

Eventually the Thalmor got interested in Nim’s activities, mostly because she was robbing folks for far longer that her sister-in-crime Alessa. Ever since the young and feisty Dunmer teenager took a boat from Raven Rock to Anvil some fifty years ago, she was busy emptying pockets of the richer folk wherever she went. Besides robberies she also found joy performing for a small fee or a drink, as well as having a bit of fun with the more good looking frequenters at taverns or even high-class gentry in posh establishments in the capital. Quite a few lords and ladies tried to woo Nim into the position of a “friend-with-benefits”, only to find their coffers emptied of prized valuables after a night of innocent fun. Years went by and eventually some bastard with enough money and influence submitted an official investigation request to the Thalmor embassy, demanding this thieving courtesan to be brought to justice in the name of “all good peoples” who “fell victim to her demonic charm and evil intent”. Recently though, those damned High Elf snobs been asking way too many questions to feel safe anywhere in Cyrodiil anymore. It was crystal clear that if she was to avoid a date with a Thlamor justicar in the local dungeon, she had to bid this province farewell and go somewhere else, someplace far away where Thalmor were busy with the matters more acute than some other thief. Hammerfell, for example, or maybe Skyrim.

Nim furrowed her brow at a single though of the great A’likr desert. With all its riches, lush oases, grand cities and virtually no Thalmor to spoil all the fun, it was just too damn hot. Not to mention the ever-present sand, stinking camels and hundreds of nasty sailors and pirates coming in with their ships from all over Tamriel. No, Skyrim was a better option. Rumor has it there’s some trouble up North, locals busy bickering amongst themselves, with the Thalmor and with Gods know whom else. Who will even notice yet another Dark Elf crossing the border? After the catastrophe that was the Red Mountain’s eruption, grey-skinned immigrants were hardly an unusual sight anymore.

“Hey!”

Nim jolted, hearing Alessa shout in her face.

“I was talkin’ to you! Dibella’s tits, what’s the matter with ya tonight?” She didn’t sound angry, but quite worried instead.

“Sorry, I’m fine. Just… thinkin’ about stuff, you know?” said Nim and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the damned headache creeping in as the alcohol cruised through her veins. It would seem she’s finally reaching that age, when one must drink with great care, lest terrible regret comes later.

“Ya, I know, toots. Things are getting nasty up in here and now you gotta do something radical about it. It sucks, I know, ‘cause the day I had to run for my life from Daggerfall all the way down to Cyrodiil was probably the shittiest day in my life. But ya know what?” The blonde finished her giant pint and put it down with a powerful knock, before getting up on her legs and rummaging for something under the table. A moment later she emerged with a familiar lute in her hands. _Her_ lute. The lute that she got from her mother as a parting gift and which was the only thing she’d not sell to anyone no matter the price.

“You gonna sing me a goodbye song, Allie? Aw, that’s cute,” smirked Nim and crossed her arms on her chest, “though to be honest, it’s me who should be doing all the singing, is it not?”

Alessa laughed, but Nim still caught a note of bitterness in her laughter. That made her frown with suspicion.

“Ya, yerright,” she extended her instrument towards the Dunmer, “’tis yours now. Think of me when ya singin’ up there in the North, will ya?”

“Allie…” Nim held her hands to herself, not daring to touch the lute, “it’s your mum’s!”

“So what?!” Alessa’s smile faded and now her cheeks were turning red as she tried to keep her strength and not cry. “There’s not much to do out there anyways! The nights are cold, it snows all year round and the people never smile, that’s what I’ve heard. So, take the damn lute! If nobody’s gonna listen to yer songs, sell it. Buy yourself some ale and drink to me!”

Unable to stand still anymore, the Dark Elf moved forward and pulled her mess of a friend into a tight hug.

“No, I‘m not gonna,“ said Nim while stroking Alessa‘s hair and pressing her chin into her friend’s shoulder. “The day I lose this lute is the day I lose you forever. I’ll keep it safe, pinky promise.”

They stood there for a while, amidst the chitter-chatter of the inn, in the flickering lights of burning candles, with the view of the city lights gleaming behind them in a window.

“Well,” finally Alessa spoke, though her voice now was hoarse and a little bit quiet. “Midnight’s soon. We gotta move if we wanna rob that fucker before dawn.”

“Hell yeah,” agreed Nim, letting go of her friend. “I hear nobody’s tried to rob good ol’ Umbacano in like two hundred years. I bet his house is full of expensive shit.”

“Hah, yeah. Well I heard he gots himself a guard-golem and it’s golden! Think if we can break that thing to pieces, how much septims can we make?” wondered Alessa, with her smile back on her lips as if she hadn’t had a minor emotional breakdown a minute earlier.

“Ten thousand, mayhaps?”

“Pfft! Ain’t worth it then!”

As they joked and talked about their last heist together, they slowly made their way outside, where the cold breeze of the night brought the smell of wet stone, dry grass and approaching autumn. Two dark figures made their way towards the tunnel to the higher city districts, where they’d enjoy a late night’s walk along the quiet and empty Imperial City streets, where white stone houses glowed like gold in the light of street lamps. Not long after, the magnificent Umbacano residence appeared before them, inviting them in with its rich facade and gilded doors. The heist was about to begin.


	2. To the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a failed heist, the two thieving friends bid their goodbies and go on their separate ways.

They failed.

They fucking _failed_. Nim wasn’t just angry, she was absolutely furious with herself. To think! Such a maestro of stealth like her got caught! It was all going smooth like butter: they made their way into the mansion, slithered past the drunken guards and picked the lock on the reinforced door to the second floor where Umbacano’s most prized possessions were kept. They cracked open those damned glass cases, stuffed their sack full of old but expensive Ayleid baubles and were ready to jump out the window and disappear into the night like the legends they were. But no, Nim just had to get caught, trip on that stupid wire, get the entire house up on their feet with their swords unsheathed and fuck up the entire heist just like that. And even worse – Alessa got captured. She had the audacity to push Nim out the window and yell at her to run. Nim didn’t want to, didn’t have the heart to abandon her companion like that, but she had no choice, for such was their golden rule. The rule they came up with on their very first job together was such that if one gets caught, the other one must escape no matter what and help the other one get out of the jail. It was a solid plan, which never failed them once in these ten years. And now… Now Nim was stuck at the noisy Roxey Inn noth of Imperial City, sipping her ale nervously and thinking about the best options to save her friend. She knew she’d come up with something solid eventually, but right now her nerves were like strings, ready to snap at any moment. She needed to calm down or, in other words, a drink.

“Fuck’s sake, Allie…” she sighed and took a big gulp of stale and warm ale, which she absolutely hated, though a bit less than being sober. Thoughts about breaking into the legendary Imperial City Bastion, which was now a personal playground for one sadistic Thalmor butcher, didn’t bring her much joy. But then again, they faced much worse failures over the past years.

“C’mon, old girl. Think, think… Who’s that fella that knows his way into the tower? Shady Sam or...?”

She couldn’t finish her idea - a sudden nudge from a passerby distracted her. She was about to yell something rude at someone so annoyingly clumsy, when she noticed a crumpled piece of paper on her table. A note? From?.. She took a look immediately and, to her relief, saw familiar childish writing:

_“Hey-a!_

_Seems like we’ve done fucked up, huh? As if it could go any other way, given what kinda victim we chose. Anyhow, I made my way back to freedom (don’t ask how, ya know I don’t like sharing my secrets). So uh, yah. Imma make my way down to Chorrol, see if I gots any luck finding them Thieves Guild boys an’ girls. Ya I know you kinda don’t believe in them, but hey, maybe they just never invited you, ‘cause you suck? Kidding! Anyways, don’t wait for me. Go to Skyrim as soon as possible, the Thalmor got some dog sniffing you out, so time’s not on your side. Good luck, sis! And don’t lose that lute or else!.._

_Hugs and kisses –_

_Your bestest of friends, Alessa”_

The little ball of paper fell into the fireplace, quickly turning to black flakes that gently floated off into the air. With one big gulp Nim finished her drink, threw a coin on a table, threw a hood over her inconveniently memorable features and went out the door, away from all this smoke and heat. The late evening breeze did good to dry out her unusually wet reddish cheeks, thank the Nine for that. With a quick glance around the Elf hopped onto an unattended horse and sent it galloping down the road. Her way was towards Bruma from where a trail only known to smugglers and poachers ran across the spine of Jerall mountains and into the wilds of Skyrim. The journey was going to be long and tough, but Nim was only happy for such a circumstance.

She hated crying more than anything else in the entire world. And as such she barely ever cried even as a child, but sometimes… Sometimes her heart needed to bleed and this moment was one of such times. Nim didn’t make friends, she had enemies and allies, both of these types of people she used to her own advantage and never grew attached to. Alessa? She was a rare example of a real, true friend. And because of Nim’s stupidity she couldn’t even hug her friend goodbye one last time. What an absolute bullshit! One day, she promised herself, she’d go to Chorrol, ask about Allie and hopefully she could hold her long lost friend once more. But for now she was on the run from the law, riding a stolen horse, wearing a stolen cloak, to a place where she’d live a fake life under a false name. Mara’s bosom… Maybe someday, sometime, she’ll have something real, something her own and not stolen? No. Someone who’s been a thief and a liar for as many years as her is probably beyond repenting…

***

“Am I cursed or something?..”

Nim just couldn’t believe her luck. Or, more fittingly, the lack of it. It wasn’t enough that she had to wait out a violent blizzard in a cave, which turned out to be a local grumpy troll’s residence, now she was standing knees-deep in wet snow, shaking of unbearable cold, watching her stolen horse getting ripped apart by hungry wolves, who, by some miracle, failed to notice a meaty Elf fleeing for her life.

The animal was neighing and screeching in pain, trying to shake off hungry beasts, but the shabby-looking, skinny canines seemed famished beyond belief. And even though Nim felt sorry for the poor animal (and, quite honestly, the owner who will never know the horrid fate of his pet), she also couldn’t feel unlucky for the fact there even was a horse to steal at the inn. If she went on her own two feet, chances are she’d be the one feeding those beasts with her bones and not the mount. Not wishing to try her luck any longer, Nim made herself scarse and left the wolves to dine in peace.

Trudging through deep snow and harsh wind with the pace of an elderly mudcrab soon turned from hours to days, as the journey promised to be much more longer and tiresome than anticipated. Harsh nights spent near a weak fire under a tree or a rock were replaced by long days under the white frozen sun, walking in no particular direction other than north. Eventually, sooner or later, the snow will end, she thought to herself. She’ll see the other side of the Jerall slopes and the land of Skyrim in all her cold and snowy glory. Someday… Sooner or later… She walked and walked and walked for what seemed like eternity, stuck in a never-ending white hell, getting weaker every day, slowly losing her sanity out of loneliness. To add insult to injury by day five the cough began. And sickness in the mountains away from civilization spells quick and painful death.

“I didn’t come… All this way… Just to die… From some stupid fever!”

Talking to herself helped the morale a slight bit. Yelling at herself helped some more. Even so, she knew what she needed most. It was warmth, alcohol and many hours of sleep under a roof, preferably one that doesn’t leak. The thought that somewhere out there was a bed and a pint of ale did little to motivate her legs, but she kept moving. After all, she couldn’t just give up now, before even reaching the prologue of her new life’s story. That would just be sad. And who knows what kind of story awaited her? Sure, it was most likely she’d continue on as a vagabond, a thief and a liar, who’d occasionally sing or warm someone’s bed. But what if she got her hands on some profitable business and became the kind of high class lady who never misses a party and always drinks the finest wine? What if she finds a company of like-minded scoundrels to call a family? Or some rich lord or lady to settle down with and live out the rest of her days in comfort and quiet? Maybe go back home to Solstheim, see if anyone still remembers her? Or, you know… End up with a cracked skull in a nearest ditch – that was too a possibility. It didn’t matter. For better or for worse, things were going to change. Nim had a strong feeling she would not be the same woman quite soon. And so, that feeling of walking towards her new destiny was what kept her legs taking one step at a time. Through tiredness, hunger and cold, Nim went on. A lone dark figure lost amongst the frozen peaks, the kingdom of famished wolves and soaring eagles…

Every now and again she’d stumble upon an abandoned hamlet devoured by snow, or some old keep or tower ruined by the strong winds of the North. All of this told a sad story of a man’s attempt to tame the cold and losing such a battle again and again. The only exceptions were ancient Nordic ruins, the ones built back in ye oldie days of draconic tyranny. She saw a couple of them back in Solstheim where she grew up and recognized these structures from a single glance. They seemed like the only manmade structure on Nirn that didn’t seem to be bothered by the persistence of mother-nature.

“Well damn…” the Elf sighed quietly, looking upon one such ruin on an unusually sunny windless day.

The old pale stones stuck out of the snow like bones of an ancient long-dead creature. The wind’s howling somewhere in the halls beneath the surface created a believable illusion that these ruins slowly breathed, as if they slumbered, waiting for their inhabitants to someday return. And the longer she looked upon them the stronger was her desire to just camp out here, away from the cold and snow, beneath the immovable stone. The thought was very tempting, but Nim was no fool. Once in her childhood she dared to explore an old abandoned ruin back in Solstheim. It was a huge complex, seemingly destroyed on purpose, with its peaks barely poking out of the ash and snow. She played there, pretending to be an adventurer on a quest to find a treasure... Until a crazed undead rose from under the ground and jumped at her with its burning eyes and a roar of madness. The child barely escaped with her life, only to get yelled at by Nana, who had already began thinking her kid got eaten by a hungry horker. That was an exciting, albeit stressful day, which sparked a desire in the young Dark Elf to someday become a real dungeon delver. She never knew ‘tis was the crime that would put bread on her table…

Letting out a tired sigh, Nim turned away from the ruin and continued her journey along the animal trails further up North. It shouldn’t be any farther, she could already see the carpet of clouds rolling against the mountainside, indicating the presence of a forest somewhere down the path.


	3. Sentenced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Nim's great grief, the Thalmor seem to have never forgotten or forgiven her crimes.

Her head hurt. This annoying pulsing pain beyond her temples just wouldn’t go away. She refused to open her eyes, to let the painful light penetrate her eyes and drill into the skull eve further. No, she’s quite comfortable with her chin to her chest, taking shallow breaths, not thinking about anything, not wondering about her whereabouts, just… Sitting there. In quiet misery. Slightly wishing for the sweet release of death. Slowly, an itching sensation began to swell up in her chest. She knew a big cough was going to erupt from her sickly lungs and that it would amplify her headache to unbearable extremes, and so she tried to remain still and ignore this feeling as much as she could. It didn’t help.

She burst into a coughing fit, which quickly shook her back into the real world. Once her throat calmed and tears cleared from the eyes, she saw a familiar face intently staring at her.

“Well, how about that. You’re alive. And awake.”

“What… Where…” she had no strength to speak. Her entire body felt so weak… The damned sickness took a deep root in her body indeed. How many days have passed since?.. Since what? Her memory failed her terribly.

“You were dead limp the entire trip, friend. I actually thought that Imperial might’ve cracked your skull. You remember? By the Blackwater Crossing? He did you real good with his club.” Said the fair-haired Nord again.

Nim frowned and tried really hard to reach down to the deepest depths of her memory, which the headache made really difficult to do. There was some success, though. She remembered… A dark night. It was cold and snowing heavily, she stumbled across the mountains and came upon a trail that lead down the slopes… She saw fire and smelled smoke, eventually she heard voices. Nim came upon a village of some sorts, populated with simple workers and soldiers… She remembered not caring to take notice of just how many soldiers there were, that’s just how tired and sick she was. The Elf had a fever, she was sweating, shaking and felt like vomiting her own guts out. The inn-keep, bless his heart, offered a stool by the fireplace, a hot wine drink and some sackcloth for a blanket. This man came up to her and asked if she was in trouble, she denied and they drank together by the fire, sharing small talk. Nim couldn’t remember what they talked about… But his name was… Ralof! Yes! By the next day she felt somewhat okay and decided to tag along with the soldiers, just in case they were marching towards a city or another more populated area. She slacked some distance behind the company, with Ralof occasionally slowing down to her pace to have chitchat. He seemed a little worried for her well-being; she must’ve looked like shit… What happened then? Someone screamed, the men grabbed their weapons and something was rushing towards them from the forest… Memories end here.

The Dunmer took a deep gulp of fresh crisp Skyrim air and took a better look around her. Somehow, she only now noticed she was sitting in a cart alongside some passengers, her hands were bound and her clothes (or what’s left of them) torn and dirty. She raised her eyes. The man in front of her gave her a light smile.

“So how are you?”

“Hey… Ralof” she returned him a smile and tried removing her dirty tangled hair from her face with bound hands. “Why are we taking a ride? I missed something important didn’t I?”

“Oh, not much. The Imperials ambushed us and are now carting us off to… Face justice, I suppose.” He shrugged.

Nim felt her guts tighten up. Justice? Isn’t that the exact same thing which she tried to escape by leaving Cyrodiil? Are Thalmor somehow… aware? She shook her head. No. No-no-no. This is bullshit. Nobody knows who the hell she is in this country. For all they know she’s just another refugee from Morrowind or something… Yeah, that’s who she is. She’ll spin some tale once they’re there. Tell them they’ve got a civilian involved. They ought to let her go. Right?

She took in another breath and took a look at the rest of her traveling companions.

“Hey. Who’s him?” she pointed her bound hands at a dirty and beaten man with black hair and eyes. “Don’t remember you being with the soldiers.”

“What’s your deal?” he barked back at her, seemingly terribly offended by her curiosity. His fury quickly subsided, though, and he dropped his eyes to his feet. “Name’s Lokir. I…”

“A thief!” Ralof quickly finished his sentence with a hint of spite in his tone.

“So what? If it weren’t for you damned rebels, I would’ve stolen that stallion over there and made my way to Hammerfell!”

“Shut up back there, damnit!” yelled and officer from somewhere in front of their carriage.

Nim frowned. A fellow thief? She might’ve failed to ask how Skyrim’s people deal with thieves before making the decision to journey here… Well, better keep quiet about her profession, then.

“What’s the matter with this fellow over here?” suddenly asked Lokir just as Nim was going to ask the same about the fourth passenger.

Said passenger, an older Nord man wearing quite an impressive suit of armor, raised his head, revealing his mouth which was gagged with a thick cloth. He stared at Nim, burrowed into her own eyes with his deep dark blue wrinkle-framed eyes. She couldn’t tell if that stare was reeking of curiosity or suspicion. She guessed former, for she knew her kind wasn’t very welcome in Skyrim.

“You better watch your words! This here is Ulfric Stormcloak the true High King of Skyrim! Show some damn respect.” Snarled Ralof, quite definitely angered by Lokir’s words.

Huh. Nim didn’t remember him being such a loyal dog to this gagged and bound man sitting next to her. Must’ve forgotten then…

Lokir quieted, but kept murmuring to himself. They sat in silence, as their cart rolled down the hill towards the unknown. Nim raised her aching head and stared up at the pines above them. She never knew they were so gigantic here in Skyrim… At least ten times the size of those that grow down South. Pretty… They must be the reason the air is so damn good in this country.

“Hey. Horse-thief.” Ralof’s voice suddenly broke the silence. “Where are you from?”

“Why do you care?”

“A true Nord’s last thoughts must be of his home.”

“I, uh… I’m from Rorikstead”

Nim noticed how dark Lokir’s eyes suddenly became. As if the realization of their current situation suddenly dawned on him. He quietly asked where they were going, as if he was scared to know the truth. Ralof said their journey is to Helgen, a nice little town and home to mead with juniper berries and pretty girls. Nim didn’t listen at this point. She just felt so godsdamn tired and ready to take another nap, right here in this carriage. And so she tried to do just that… Until she was awoken by the loud banging of old wooden gates being open. They have arrived.

To Nim’s absolute disbelief, she saw Thalmor by the gates. Those black and gold robes just can’t be mistaken! Well, shit. If those Altmer bitches are here, then it means… She may not walk a free woman today. Fuck.

Their cart rode around the tower and to the place of execution. Luckily, no Thalmor seem to be present here, only Imperials, who didn’t waste any time almost literally throwing prisoners out of the carriages. They all stood in a neat line and got processed one by one. And the closer was Nim’s turn to get asked questions, the more her gut twisted in her belly, the weaker her knees gotten… Lokir made a wild dash. They shot him just like that. Nobody even came to take away the body. He was innocent, uninvolved with these rebels, just some petty thief. Shot like a dog. The Elf felt dizzy. It would seem there will be no fair trial here in Helgen today.

What bullshit. What absolute joke from the Gods. Was this all a mistake? She should’ve stayed in Cyrodiil, she could’ve gone off the grid for a while, and she might’ve gotten left alone… But no. She went to Skyrim, hoping to catch her destiny by the tail, turn her life around, start anew. And look where all this crap got her… Sick, tired and malnourished, about to be executed for what? Crossing the damn border? What a fucking joke.

She didn’t listen to what was being told her. She just… felt like not caring anymore. This entire situation was so fucking stupid it might as well be a bad feverish dream. The moment her head rolls off her shoulders she’ll wake up back home or in Blackwater Crossing and everything’s going to get back to being somewhat normal. Right?

“Next – the Dark Elf!” shouted the bulky, square-faced Imperial commander.

Their eyes met for a split second, but it was enough for Nim to notice a hint of hate in that woman’s glance. The Elf bit her cheek. She’s going to enjoy watching yet another damn Elf go to the block. Someone’s really bitter about the whole Great War thing, isn’t she? Nim really wanted to say something rude to her while passing by, but alas, she’d rather not get shanked with a sword and bleed to death slowly and painfully…

The Executioner’s cold arm squeezed her bare and bony shoulder, forcing the Dunmer on her knees. With her head pressed against the cold and bloodied stone block, Nim looked upon the sunrise right behind her executioner’s shoulder. Out there, in the distance fluffy green pines swayed in the wind, seemingly scraping the skies with their tall and sharp pinnacles. The golden rays of Magnus shone from beyond the mountains, getting brighter as the sun rose to its rightful place in the sky. Puffy clouds rolled over the high peaks, glowing with gentle pinks and yellows. Pretty. Yeah, she doesn’t mind dying to such a view, Nim thought. In her peripheral vision she saw the man raise an axe above her. Gods, please, let it all be over in one chop…

A rumbling echo came from seemingly the mountains themselves. Before Nim could wonder what it was a strange shadow blocked the rays of the sun. It was… a bird? It grew bigger. And bigger. And bigger! Her eyes widened as she noticed the silhouette was coming their way and then suddenly the skies themselves seemingly fell upon their heads. Next… A blur. The ground shook and there was a flash of red before her eyes. She thought she had died.


	4. Burning Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was supposed to be a quiet execution morning at Helgen turned into a terrible battle between two mighty beasts. And Nim finds herself almost literally between a rock and a hard place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone here is willing to fix my Dovahzul, i'd be grateful!

Deafening thunder rolled across the skies with waves of flaming clouds. The earth moved and cracked open, swallowing falling towers and screaming people alike. The air… it was so unbearably hot, each breath felt like a stab to the lungs. She tried to pry her eyes open, but the dust and her own blood from a split temple didn’t allow her to do that. She tried to move – something heavy was pinning her to the ground. Panic began to settle in as thoughts of being buried alive began to creep in on her, but suddenly the dead weight, which turned out to be just a dead executioner, was rolled off of her. Nim was met with a grimy, but very much living face of Ralof.

“Come on!” he yelled, his voice raspy and shaky. “Get up! We’ve got to get out of here!”

He grabbed her by the arm and with one swift move put her on her feet. Her knees felt week, but a rush of adrenaline gave them enough strength to keep the woman upright. They ran, one after the other, towards one tower that, despite being on fire, still stood, albeit barely… As they dashed into the hot darkness within the stone belly of the tower, she heard the door being slammed shut behind their backs. There was it again. The thunder clap, right above their heads, loud, booming, sending vibrations through the entire structure.

“What was that damn thing?!” exclaimed Nim, still feeling like in a dizzy dream. None of what was happening right now felt real, she genuinely thought they ended up in Oblivion. Mehrunes Dagon’s Deadlands it would seem. The ambient was terrifyingly fitting.

“A godsdamn dragon!” said Ralof. “Didn’t you see him? One helluva beastie! As if straight from a fairytale!”

“Fairytales don’t burn villages to the ash now do they?” an unfamiliar voice said.

That man, the one Ralof referred to as King named Ulfric, was also alive and alongside them within the doubtful safety of this tower. Free of his bounds and no longer gagged, he too seemed pretty shaken up about the ordeal. A fresh burn on his cheek was proof of his recent unexpected face-to-face with a dragon.

“I have a suggestion, gentlemen,” said Nim, feeling the earth move beneath her feet again, as another booming explosion went off somewhere nearby. “How about we fuckin’ run?!”

“Aye. The lass’s right. Up the stairs, move!” agreed Ralof and, with his fists ready just in case, moved forward to lead the way, with Nim closely at his heels.

Not even ten steps later the tower shook once more. Something… landed on the building. It would seem Ralof realized that too, as he stopped in his tracks immediately and shouted at everyone down the stairs to get down. The wall exploded, sending scorching-hot stones flying everywhere. Then she saw it. Wide-eyed Nim looked upon a real dragon, flesh and blood, tooth and scale, mere steps away from her. His huge, black, spiky snout, adorned with a crown of twisted horns and a pair of burning eyes, took in a deep hoarse breath, his jaws opened wide, exposing countless needle-sharp teeth and a coal-black maw, then, seemingly out of nowhere, a wave of hottest fire imaginable poured into the building. Unbearable heat and blinding light made Nim squeeze herself into the wall behind Ralof’s back, as a sudden urge to live, absent just a few moments ago, suddenly awoke. The screams of those unlucky ones who happened to get in the way of the dragon’s fire filled the heated air, and she herself felt like screaming out of pure animalistic dread. Suddenly everything calmed. The heat disappeared and when she opened her eyes again the terrifying beast was gone.

“Out the hole and onto the roof!” commanded Ralof to the few lucky survivors. “Go! Go! Don’t think just move!”

“Oh Gods… I think I’m gonna be sick…” murmured Nim, as her eyes wondered down the stairwell, where freshly roasted bodies piled up.

“Hurry up if you don’t want to end up the same!” said Ralof and grabbed Nim’s arm, nudging her towards the ledge.

She didn’t as much jump, as she did stumble and fall down onto the tavern’s roof, almost hitting her head on the stones of a destroyed chimney. She wiggled her way through the piled up furniture and rubble, made her way down the tiny hole in a ceiling and finally felt the sandy ground under her bare feet. Without much though, she ran, as her survival instincts told her to. She heard a man – the very same man who put her name on the list and promised to send her remains back to Morrowind – call out to her, but she didn’t stop. Oh no. The Gods have seemingly had a change of heart and Nim had no intention of not taking such chance. All she had to do is make her way to the gates… Then, she could run for the hills, hide in the woods where trees where high and dense enough to deter any legendary flying lizards from chasing her down. All she had to do is keep running, through dirt and fire, through bodies and chaos.

And so she did. She kept her pace up and was already on what just recently was the main road, the desired gate already in her sights, when suddenly a long black shadow fell upon her. The land jumped up and down, tossing the Elf like a ragdoll. After a few good rolls she ended up lying in the dirt, alongside some crispy bodies. With great effort in her hurting neck, she raised her head to look upon the monstrosity that towered above her. The black, spiked silhouette slithered towards her, long neck snaking around ruble and ruin, giant bat-like wings clawing at the stones and the maw, that very same black maw full of sharpest teeth the size of daggers, opened wide at her. A rumbling gurgle came out of the dragon’s throat, deep and loud, evoking deepest, most primal fear within Nim’s soul. The beast moved towards her same as lion towards a lamb, burning hunger in his demonic eyes…

This is it, she thought. Her execution proceeds, it would seem. Rather than an axe, she’ll get the jaws of a beast from long-lost myths and legends. What a way to die. She closed her eyes tightly shut and tried to cover her head with her still bound and very much bruised hands, as she felt the air get hot again, anticipating the fire to engulf her any moment now.

The land shook once again and then there was a loud, almost metallic thud and a roar. Her eyes snapped open and what she saw seemed too unbelievable to even be a dream. Above her head was a long belly of black and purple scales and in front and above her – a head with sickle-shaped horns, a thick feathery mane standing up like an agitated dog’s fur and a beaked maw wide open. Another dragon, much smaller than the destroyer of Helgen, stood above her like a shield. She felt his chest rumble and then a high-pitched screech escaped the beast’s throat. For a few unbelievably long moments nothing happened. Nim felt as if the time itself slowed down. Everything that was happening was so surreal she suddenly forgot about everything: Helgen, her execution, the burning people all around her… The noise of the catastrophe seemingly disappeared like a fog in the morning. It was dead quiet, aside from heavy, raspy, gurgling breaths of two ancient creatures that, by all means, should not exist. The air was thick with… hatred?

“Yollokmir! Dur Fronkriid! Hi Unt Zu’u, Fin Kulaan Do Bormahu?”1 Deep and heavy booming voice erupted from the black winged giant. Nim could feel his words vibrate through her entire body and that feeling was the most terrifying thing she had ever felt in her life.

“Hi Los Nid Kul Do Bormahu! Fin Dovahkiin Fent Ni Dir Nau Sul Do Ek Kiin!”2 The second voice came from the beast that stood above her, and it was different… Somewhat metallic-sounding, hoarse, more reminiscent of a growl, rather than a roar.

“Laat Prodah, Fronkriid. Kos Vod!”3

She heard the jaws menacingly snap and then the smaller beast hissed, aggressively, like an angry snake. The ground vibrated as the big black dragon moved his massive, mountain-sized body around, with his protruding spike-like scales scratching against the scorched stone. The small one got down closer to the ground, like a cat preparing for a jump. He was so close, that Nim could’ve easily touched his sharp and flexible underbelly scales had she reached her hand out. Alas, she was too scared to even breathe…

The dragons stood there for a mere moment, one trying to intimidate the other, none willing to back down. Then, the booming roar erupted once more:

“Ruz Hi Ney Fent Oblaan!”4

The monstrous giant bodies moved like eels in the water, throwing themselves at each other, jaws wide open and claws bare. The black beast clasped his long, sharp teeth around the neck of his opponent, causing the latter to howl in pain. The small dragon quickly moved, his tail came crashing down onto his enemy, a bony tip at the end of it sliced into the dark hide like a whip. His emissary, almost thrice the size and strength, threw Nim’s unexpected savior like rag, slamming the heavy body against the wall, and then again and then some more, eliciting pained growls and hisses out of the feathered dragon.

With what strength she had, Nim scrambled to her feet and stumbled her way towards the nearby keep, desperately hoping for a shelter against the unexpected duel of giants happening around her. As if by some miracle she saw a familiar figure crawl out from under some burning ruin and hurry towards the same building as her. Ralof! What an absolute legend, this man, she thought to herself as she limped to meet him.

The beasties, in the meantime, clashed their teeth and claw not so far away. The smaller one understood, it would seem, the futility of trying to battle an enemy of such sheer power and size on the ground, and with an agile jump and a massive flap of wings he dove into the sky, luring the black monstrosity into the open air. Suddenly, everyone on the ground stopped what they were doing, as they watched, with their breaths held and eyes wide open, as two gigantic bodies flew higher and higher, into the black clouds of smoke and fire. They danced around each other, like eagles do when they fight for territory. The destroyer of Helgen spun around, roaring and spitting fire, as he lost the sight of the small and sleek dragon, who struck unexpectedly and retreated into the clouds, only to repeat his assault from a different direction. The sounds of roars and hisses, of beating wings and raging fire filled the air as the two battling dragons chased after each other, sliced at each other with claws and snapped their jaws. The skies thundered and burned like it was the end of times.

“Get inside, quickly!” Ralof’s voice came from Nim’s behind, but before she could turn around to face him, he roughly pushed her into the darkness of the fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovahzul translations:
> 
> 1 - Yollokmir! Cursed Kinslayer! You challenge me, the Firstborn of Akatosh?  
2 - You are no son of Akatosh! The Dragonborn shall not die on the day of her birth!  
3 - Last warning, Kinslayer. Be gone!  
4 - The you shall die together!


End file.
